


Concerning Mistletoe, Mince Pies, and the Lady of the Lake

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arthurian Myths, Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M, Mistletoe, No Historical Accuracy Implied, fluff with a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: On a cozy midwinter evening in the South Downs, Aziraphale tells Crowley the tale of his involvement with King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	Concerning Mistletoe, Mince Pies, and the Lady of the Lake

Christmas is an interesting time if you're six thousand years old. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale could get behind the modern celebration of it - when an earnest young carpenter was someone you'd met in person, and the nails and the blood are still fresh in your memories after all those centuries, it's easy to balk at the kitsch and inaccuracies.

However, the turning of the year is something that works itself into your bones (if you have them), and there are seasonal rituals that become natural, familiar, and comforting.

For Azriaphale, it's the scent of cut evergreen, the dark glint of holly, the aroma of spices, and the glow of a good fire.

Crowley's got a soft spot for all those things, too (for all he'd never admit it), but in addition the long nights and bright, clear winter sky are favorites of his.

On a hunch, Aziraphale happened to leave a few strings of fairy lights unguarded in the main room of their South Downs cottage, the first Christmas they spent there. Before long, Crowley had strung them along the dark wooden beams of the ceiling, outlining constellations that weren't visible from Earth, filling the room with stars (the strands of fairy lights ended up multiplying rapidly in the process). Along the way, the largest ficus tree acquired a string of lights, too, and was a bit smug about it, even though Aziraphale heard Crowley's whispered, "Don't get cocky, mate."

Aziraphale had stifled a grin; he was in the process of putting up garlands of pine, holly, and ribbons, so he could pretend he hadn't heard.

When they were finished Aziraphale stood back with his hands on his hips and nodded approval. "I think it's time to bake some mince pies," he announced. He'd wheedled the recipe out of the village bakery (Sad Angel Eyes worked on humans as well as demons, and it didn't hurt that he was one of their best customers), partly so he wouldn't have to keep trekking in to re-stock, and partly because a house didn't feel truly home-like at this time of year without the scent of fresh-baked treats. Even in the bookstore he'd done a little midwinter baking within the confines of his kitchenette, though he was happy enough to outsource kitchen labor the rest of the year.

"You do that," Crowley said. "I've got one more thing I'd like to take care of." He was reaching for his coat and dark glasses as he spoke, and was out the door in in a swirl of cold air without waiting for an answer.

Pleasantly intrigued, Aziraphale went to the kitchen to check if the pastry was sufficiently chilled.

\---

The first batch of pies was in the oven, each pie carefully topped with a pastry star, when Crowley returned.

Aziraphale stopped spooning filling into crusts and went to the main room, dusting flour onto his tartan apron as he went. Once there, he burst into laughter at the sight of Crowley, just setting down a large bag of mistletoe branches.

"Really, love, I don't think we need that much assistance," he said. "Unless you're feeling particularly ambitious?"

The pink in Crowley's cheeks might have been from the cold. He huffed in his annoyed-that-I'm-embarrassed way as he tossed his dark glasses onto a side table. "The rowan tree down at the bend was getting overgrown with the stuff. Figured I'd go shout some of it down. It turned out to be more than I expected."

Aziraphale could picture the scene: Crowley standing at the base of the rowan, shouting imprecations upward, breath puffing in the cold, until the mistletoe was shamed into a bit of self-pruning. Anyone passing by would think he was a madman, assuming their attention wasn't magically directed elsewhere. Another typical gardening day, in other words.

"I didn't think you'd be on such friendly terms with rowan trees," Aziraphale said, with a smile.

"It never hurts to have a favor you can call in," Crowley shrugged. "And waste not, want not, like you're always saying."

True to his word, he spent the rest of the afternoon threading mistletoe into the greenery already decorating the room, his long, clever fingers well suited to the task. Aziraphale went back to baking, and the time passed pleasantly.

When they were finished, there was a fire in the grate (Crowley having worked himself into being all right with small, contained indoor fires), a plate of mince pies, port of a richness to match the pies, and a warm sense of contentment in the air. Aside from the fire, the only other light in the main room came from Crowley’s fairy-light constellations, adding to the overall warmth. Aziraphale settled in his chair and Crowley sprawled on the sofa. It was an evening that lent itself well to stories and reminiscences, an old pattern dating well back into their friendship.

Crowley's eyes drifted to the front door, and the ancient sword that hung in readiness above it, its pommel and crossguard gleaming sliver-bright in the firelight, the leather grip and sheath gone nearly black with age even under angelic spells of preservation.

He topped up his glass, and said, "I still haven't heard how you ended up with Excalibur." He nodded in the direction of the door as he set the bottle back on the table between the sofa and chair.

"Oh! Goodness, yes, that was a story," Aziraphale said, with a fond smile at the sword.

"Arthur gave it to you, you said?"

"Yes, he was afraid people would make it into a symbol of kingship, in a way that would undercut what it really meant to be King - which is more than just waving a magic sword around, as I'm sure you know. Then there'd be fighting over it, and," he waggled his fingers illustratively, "it would end up being more trouble than it was worth.

"So he gave it to me, for safekeeping. By then he had a fairly good idea of what I was, even though I never told him outright. I think he was a bit psychic - it runs in families, and his sister was a witch, you know - and he saw more than most.” Aziraphale's eyes were distant and thoughtful, his lips curving in a particularly warm smile, and Crowley raised a mental eyebrow

He knew Aziraphale had taken human lovers in the past, and it didn't bother him, but he’d started to make bets with himself as to the identities of those past dalliances. He could probably ask outright and Aziraphale would tell him, but guessing was more fun. Oscar Wilde was a shoo-in, and at least one or two Discreet Gentlemen's Club "lads" (especially since Aziraphale had once described sex with humans as a bit of light fun for two or more, "like the Gavotte," and Crowley was pretty sure the comparison hadn't come out of nowhere).

King Arthur certainly hadn’t been one of Crowley’s picks before, but he was on the “maybe” list now.

He took a swig of port and said, “Why don’t you start at the beginning? You can skip the Garden, though, I was there for that bit.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at Crowley, but settled back in his story-telling pose, and sipped his own port as he thought.

“I wasn’t there at the very beginning,” he said after a moment. “There’d already been the sword in the stone and all of that. I was assigned to go and give a bit of divine inspiration, to keep it all going.

“Once I was there, though, I was intrigued – I’d never seen anyone trying to do quite what Arthur was attempting, and I decided to get involved, personally.”

“Come for the divine inspiration, stay for the chivalry?” Crowley asked, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Something like that.”

Arthur ticked up a bit higher on Crowley’s mental list.

“Anyway, Arthur’s first sword, the one from the stone, had broken in battle just before I arrived – it was magical, but it wasn’t a very good sword, otherwise.” Aziraphale made a face at the memory of shoddy workmanship. “Myrddin had one of the Seven Swords of Wayland stashed away from goodness knows where. I never did get a straight answer out of him about that . . .”

“Myrddin – Merlin?”

“Yes, that’s the modern version. Really, love you should know, you were there.”

“Just lurking around the edges. Most of what me and my crew got up to was dice and drinking out in the woods, waiting for the unsuspecting to come by and get a good scare. I wasn’t really paying attention to the rest of it. Anyway, Merlin. Go on.”

“He was a cunning old rogue. Reminded me a bit of you, really.” Aziraphale smiled affectionately at Crowley, and Crowley added Merlin to the “maybes.”

He’d always wondered why Sir Aziraphale hadn’t made it into the books, but maybe there’d been a reason. For all Crowley knew, Aziraphale might have cut a swathe through half the Round Table. Considering Aziraphale’s borderline Knight-in-shining-armor fetish, that was entirely possible.

“And Arthur needed a new sword, so the obvious choice was Caliburnus.” There was a whisper, or an echo, that trailed the word, the hint of a true name being spoken aloud, and both of them turned to look at the sword over the door. Nothing else happened, but there was the sense of waiting, and readiness. The sheathed sword might be sleeping, but not completely.

“Excalibur.”

“Yes, probably a safer thing to call it, in the end. Another idea of Myrdd – Merlin’s.

“I walked into the middle of a planning session, basically – the sword in the stone had been so dramatic, they realized there should probably be a show for presenting Excalibur, above and beyond Merlin just handing it over and saying, ‘Congratulations.’

“I know all the myths seem so solid and inevitable now, but back then it was constant off-the-cuff street theater. We were making it up as we went along, in hopes of holding the whole thing together as long as possible.

“The Lady of the Lake was already around in folklore, so we settled on her as a sword delivery method. That was where I came in.” Aziraphale made a face. “White samite and a cold lake, not the nicest afternoon I’ve ever spent, but . . .”

“Waitwaitwait – _you_ were the Lady of the Lake?”

“Well, they needed someone who could hold their breath indefinitely, so, yes.”

“Didn’t they . . . I dunno, think that was suspicious, or weird, or . . .?”

“They thought I was a human wizard, like Merlin, and I didn’t bother correcting them.” Aziraphale shrugged and sipped port. “He was quite the shapeshifter, himself. He could probably have gone in the lake, too, but he was getting on in years and didn’t fancy what the cold would do to his joints.”

Crowley realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it.

“I thought you were pretending to be a _Knight_. You were in armor, I saw you.”

“That was because I got sent out to look into the whole Black Knight business – there was a rumor of something supernatural going on, above and beyond the brigandry, so they sent a wizard, naturally enough. But Arthur didn’t want me going out unarmed and unarmored, so I humored him. Otherwise, I tried to stay away from that side of things.”

“You introduced yourself as ‘Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round!’”

“I didn’t know it was you, did I? Until I found out what I was dealing with, being a Knight seemed like a the best front.”

“But you would have been a natural.” Crowley mimed sword-y gestures with his free hand as he took a sip of port.

“Yes, and that’s the problem – I couldn’t take up arms against humans. That would have been morally wrong in every way, not to mention completely unfair. I was happy enough to stay out of the limelight as Merlin’s un-named assistant. And that worked beautifully, until . . .” Aziraphale stopped and looked down at his port glass, spinning the stem back and forth between his fingers.

Crowley recognized a sensitive spot, a thin fracture of sorrow crossing the narrative, and bit his tongue, waiting for Aziraphale to continue.

“Just as things were starting to unravel, Merlin passed away in his sleep.” A shadow of grief, long past, but still remembered. Aziraphale didn’t look, up, just watched his spinning glass, clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise again.

“ _What?_ I don’t remember that in any of the stories.”

“We covered it up, obviously. We didn’t dare have any rumor get out that smacked of mere mortal weakness, not then. So we trotted out the Lady of the Lake again and wove a whole story around Merlin’s absence, to keep the myth going.” Aziraphale sighed. “I still wonder if he knew, beforehand. He didn’t say as much, but in hindsight, there may have been hints . . . If so, he felt it was his fate, and one has to respect that, though I still wonder if I might have been able to do something, if I’d known.”

Merlin moved from the “maybe” column to the “very likely” column. Aloud Crowley said, speaking from his own experience, “Healing’s tricky. Sometimes we’re allowed, but not always. It might have been one of those times.”

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale said, which Crowley translated as, _I’d like to believe that, though I’m not sure I do,_ but he stopped spinning his glass and took a sip instead.

“So, I got to put on white samite again, and play The Enchantress Nimue, as Merlin’s replacement, to keep everything going.” A faint smile in Crowley’s direction. “You were wondering about the times I presented as female in the past – well, this was one of them. Certainly the most extended run.”

“Right,” Crowley said, feeling a little dazed. _All th_ _ese centuries_ _and I had no idea about any of this._ _At least now I know why there’s no “Sir Aziraphale” in the books._

_I really should have taken a break from playing dice._

“And then, all too soon, it was Camlann, and, as you said, a wound I couldn’t heal.” Another fracture of sorrow, but this time Aziraphale didn’t pause. “That was when Arthur told me, ‘Keep Excalibur safe, forever. I know that you, of all my court, can keep that promise.' Of course I said yes. It was his last wish and he was my King, at least on Earth.

“After a tiresome argument with Sir Bedivere, who wanted to keep Excalibur for the next King - really that man was so uselessly stubborn,” Aziraphale spared an eyeroll for that particular Knight, “but he proved Arthur’s fears were entirely genuine – it was back to the lake, and Excalibur passed into my keeping. And Arthur . . . passed. He burned so brightly, it was hard to believe his light could be extinguished. But.” A sigh. “All of it brought down by human nature, not by a marauding Black Knight after all.” He gave Crowley a wan little smile.

Crowley swallowed. He hadn’t meant for the evening to take _this_ sort of turn. Still, it felt oddly right, since Christmas, and, before Christmas was a thing, Midwinter, had always been a time for ghost stories: in the dark of the year, remembering what had been before, even as the wheel of the year began turning back to the light.

It wasn’t very festive, though, and Crowley’d had enough of ghosts in his time. Humans were all too easy to care about as individuals, and the lesson of keeping one’s distance had been a hard one, even for him, with his dark, secretive, Fallen heart. So much harder, he knew, for Aziraphale, whose heart freely and openly encompassed all of Creation.

“People still remember, though,” he said quietly. “They keep telling the stories, even if they get most of it wrong. That doesn’t fix anything, but at least it wasn’t lost. It wasn’t for nothing.”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened, and his smile became more genuine, focused now on Crowley, rather than on memories. “That’s true.”

“I think they’d – Arthur and Merlin – be glad that Excalibur is here, too. On the side of Earth. Seems appropriate.” A memory of Aziraphale, wings spread, holding a drawn Excalibur wreathed in white-hot starfire, the fierce and whole-hearted Guardian he was always meant to be. “You make a good Knight, when you put your mind to it.”

“Thank you, love. It helps to be properly inspired.” Aziraphale raised his glass in Crowley’s direction.

Crowley was glad for the firelight, gone to red coals now, hiding the heat in his face. He emptied his glass and went to sit on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair. Aziraphale’s arm went easily around his waist, as Crowley’s arm went around Aziraphale’s shoulder.

They sat in silence for a bit, breathing in the scents of evergreen, spice, and each other. Crowley wrapped himself around Aziraphale, physically and metaphysically: dark, spiked coils of scaled armor looping around Aziraphale’s light, protection and a promise. _I’m here for you, and forever is ours if we want it._ Love might never be an entirely safe thing for any thinking being, but mortality, at least, wasn’t one of their worries.

“Does this make me your noble lady?” Crowley asked, finally, “Dispensing favors to wear and giving you polite little golf claps from the viewing stands?”

As he’d hoped, the mental image made Aziraphale laugh.

“Oh, I hope not. Courtly love was a _terrible_ idea, all those bizarre emotional contortions. Regular love is so much better.”

“You’re the love expert, angel” Crowley allowed, and kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head, followed by a gentle kiss on the lips.

When they parted, Aziraphale reached up and ran the lightest fingertip along the line of Crowley’s jaw. His blue eyes were dark in the firelight, but filled with reflections of the fairy lights, endless constellations. Crowley shuddered at the touch, his body remembering a great many things at once. “I think all that mistletoe is going to your head,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Might be,” Crowley told him. “I think I’m developing some ambition.”

“Do tell.”

“I might even be a slave to it. Just a little bit.”

That earned him a finger hooked into his shirt collar, a tug down, another kiss, and _yes_ \- this was the evening properly redirected.

“We should find out how much,” Aziraphale told him.

 _How much_ turned out to involve a large number of conjured blankets and pillows, a break for more pies and port (which turned into feeding each other for good measure), then more blankets, and a long, happy, drowsy snuggle in front of coals that never seemed to quite burn out.

Just before dawn, Crowley mumbled, “I think I might owe that rowan tree, instead of the other way round.”

Aziraphale gave him a low, velvety chuckle. “Possibly. But it can wait.”

“Yeah, we’ve got plenty of time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy winter holidays, all.
> 
> For reference, Aziraphale’s Nimue conflates two separate Ladies of the Lake, and then borrows heavily from Malory. My version leaves out a lot, but then again there are so many versions of Arthurian myth, pretty much anything goes, IMO. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_of_the_Lake
> 
> Why yes, I added a "Robin of Sherwood" reference – although Caliburnus wasn’t one of the original Seven Swords of Wayland, I figured, why not? I like the idea of that version of Robin Hood sharing this universe. https://www.robinofsherwood.org/swords.html 
> 
> I chose Geoffrey of Monmuth’s “Caliburnus,” as the sword’s true name, since it elides nicely into "Excalibur." Also, Latin always sounds classy. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Excalibur
> 
> Pro tip: it’s generally a bad idea to store swords in their sheaths, since that can encourage corrosion of the blade, but Aziraphale has ways of avoiding that.
> 
> And, as for historical accuracy, if the TV show can have our lads wearing *that* armor and carrying *those* swords in the year 537, I figure that ups the “anything goes” quotient by at least 10x.


End file.
